Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘No, no!’ Alcest moaned.

‘I believe you did,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You are like Stablegate and Flinstead who wanted to get forged licences and letters from you. You are consumed by avarice; the pleasures of the belly and the crotch are your only guiding lights, yet you wanted more.’

‘But the riddles,’ Alcest wailed. ‘I wouldn’t leave riddles!’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Athelstan replied. ‘I thought you were skilled in the art of the riddle. Moreover, Master Alcest, look at the way these young men died. Peslep sitting on a jakes with his hose about his ankles.’ Athelstan paused and stared at the light streaming through the arrow-slit window. Had he said something wrong?

‘Brother?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes,’ Athelstan faltered. He didn’t feel so sure any more. ‘You followed Peslep to that tavern because you knew he went there every day. The same applies to the other murders. You knew their habits, their lifestyle. Did you send Napham back to his lodgings?’

‘Well, no, he wanted to go…’

‘Didn’t you arrange to meet him before coming to the Tower?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Or did you already know that Napham was going to walk into his chamber and have half his foot taken off by a caltrop? Were you busy in Southwark trying to terrify Mistress Alison, Chapler’s sister? You act like a court fop,’ Athelstan continued, ‘wearing your cloak and spurred boots.’

Alcest put his arms across his chest and began to rock gently backwards and forwards on the stool.

‘You do dress like that, don’t you?’

Alcest nodded.

‘So why did you stop?’ Cranston asked.

‘I became frightened,’ the clerk said. ‘When I heard that Peslep had been killed by a man wearing spurs on his boots…’

‘So easy, wasn’t it?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘The poison in Ollerton’s cup just as you tried to poison Chapler.’

Alcest lifted his head.

‘Oh yes.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘We know about that. Did Elflain tell you he was going to visit Dame Broadsheet? What next? Were you going to arrange some attack on yourself from which you would escape?’

‘I’m no murderer!’ Alcest retorted defiantly.

‘You are a thief,’ Cranston intervened. ‘You are a felon and an assassin. Master Alcest,’ the coroner intoned, ‘I arrest you for petty treason, homicide, theft, sustaining and nourishing known outlaws and wolfsheads.’ He walked over and, crouching down, stared into Alcest’s face. ‘I shall tell you something, Master Alcest: you will weep and bitterly regret entering this narrow place.’ He winked at Athelstan. ‘It was a mistake, wasn’t it, Master Colebrooke?’ Cranston asked, turning to the Constable.

Athelstan did not like the sneer on Colebrooke’s face: he was staring at Alcest as a cat would a mouse. The Constable came forward.

‘Master Alcest,’ he declared. ‘You are now my prisoner. You fled to the Tower and in the Tower you shall remain.’

‘You see,’ Cranston explained as Colebrooke dragged Alcest to his feet. ‘According to ancient law and customs, a felon can receive sanctuary in a church but, if he is found in the royal presence, be it Westminster, Eltham, Sheen or the Tower, he can be arrested and summarily tortured. Master Colebrooke here will help you remember.’

The Constable was already dragging Alcest to the door, shouting for guards. Within a few minutes the hapless clerk had been bundled out of the room, Colebrooke ordering him to be taken to the dungeons.

‘Is that really necessary?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He’ll not confess,’ Cranston replied. ‘And we have to be careful, Brother. If Alcest left the Tower, he might flee to a church, seek sanctuary and, as a royal clerk, claim benefit of clergy.’

‘In which case,’ Colebrooke continued, ‘he would demand to be tried by the Church courts. Brother Athelstan, I am afraid you have no choice in the matter. Sir John mentioned the Regent. He will insist that Alcest be closely questioned.’

‘But why did he come here?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Why jump from the pot into the fire?’

‘Oh come, Brother.’ Cranston went across to the table where the servitors had left their blackjacks of ale. He drank his in one gulp then picked up the one left for Alcest. ‘Our clerk is arrogant, he acts like cock of the walk. He really believed he wouldn’t be arrested.’

‘No, no, that’s not true.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Sir John, Master Colebrooke, can I be excused for a while? I need to think, reflect.’

And without waiting for an answer, lost in his own thoughts, Athelstan left the chamber and went down the stairs.

‘Ah well,’ Cranston sighed. He finished the second blackjack and picked up the third. ‘Master Colebrooke, I do not want Alcest to die.’

The Constable grinned wolfishly. ‘Sir John, he is a traitor and a felon. He has come to the dance floor and dance he must!’

Cranston kicked his heels in the chamber. He dozed for a while then got up, threw open the door and went searching for Athelstan. He found him outside Wakefield Tower speaking to Colebrooke and one of the Tower scriveners. The latter listened carefully to what Athelstan was saying, nodded and hurried off.

‘Brother, where have you been?’

‘Sir John, I apologise. Master Colebrooke, thank you and goodbye.’

Athelstan slipped his arm through that of the irate coroner. ‘Come, come, Sir John,’ he said soothingly. ‘I was just going about a little business.’

‘What business?’

‘In a while, my Lord Coroner, in a while, but the day draws on.’

They left the Tower, Cranston accompanying Athelstan along Tower Street to Eastcheap. At the corner of Greychurch street, the coroner stopped, drawing Athelstan into the door of an alehouse.

‘Brother, I must return to Lady Maude and the poppets. There’s business waiting for me at the Guildhall…’

‘In other words you are hungry so want a pie and a blackjack of ale at the Holy Lamb of God?’

Cranston grinned. ‘You are a miracle, Brother, a reader of minds!’

‘No, Sir John, your stomach’s rolling like a drum.’

‘Oh, so it is!’

‘But you’ll be in Southwark by Vespers, Sir John?’

‘Of course, Brother.’ Cranston rubbed his hands. ‘I’ve always yearned to meet the Sanctus Man and I also want to study this precious relic of yours.’

‘It’s not mine,’ Athelstan protested but Sir John was already striding off, raising his hand in farewell.

Athelstan watched the coroner waddling away like some fat-bellied cog making its way along the Thames. ‘God bless you, Sir John,’ he murmured.

Athelstan paused before continuing: a line of strumpets, their heads bald as eggs, had been caught soliciting within the city boundaries. They were now being led through the city, a bagpiper going before them, his screeching music silencing the din all around. The whores in their smocks, roped together, were escorted by a bailiff who carried a fish basket full of their scarlet or red wigs whilst behind them a boy beat a drum; a legion of urchins followed to see what mischief they could stir up. After that came other rogues: felons, nightwalkers, thieves and pickpockets, all lashed to the tails of carts, their hose pulled down about their ankles whilst a sweating bailiff birched them with thin strips of ash.

At last the sorry procession passed by and Athelstan went along on to London Bridge, making his way under the shops and houses built on either side. He paused at the chapel of St Thomas a Becket and entered its cool darkness. He sat just within the doorway, quiet as a mouse, staring at the huge crucifix which hung over the high altar. He was sure Chapler had been killed here. He must tell Father Prior that so the church could be reconsecrated and hallowed. He closed his eyes and said a prayer for Chapler and the other victims, as well as one for Sir John and himself. He just hoped that the Sanctus Man would help to clear up the mischief at St Erconwald’s.